Go On
by Echo1317
Summary: Captain America definitely has a type. *snapshots, all in the same timeline, may not all be in the right order; featuring Cap/OC*
1. In which first impressions don't go over

**A/N **Wow, it's been a while since I did this. Here I've got for you a Steve Rogers/OC story with a girl who's been floating around in my head for years and got overly attached to him. It's about 3 chapters away from being done, so it'll be updated regularly but unbeta'd. Set in a kind of combo of the MCU and comic verses. So let's dive right in, yes?

(And many thanks to Stephanie (sheerstupidrambler), the Cap to my Vee in many an RP. I LOVE YOU.)

* * *

**In which first impressions don't go over too well**

* * *

The boat lifts into the air, and the Captain feels his stomach drop.

See, the last time he was on a plane this big, it didn't go so well. It kind of ended with him trapped in a block of ice for seventy years. He figures that, with no psychotic German super-people on board and a large, presumably well trained crew running the show, this flight will go much better than the last, but one never knows. He keeps his fingers crossed, just in case, as he and the others ascend into the control room. The world is bigger now then it was when he went under- he has to hand over the ten to Fury because he never expected any of this to be real.

They're up in the air, and they've got screens everywhere, and how many people are working on this-

The Captain turns away from the view to congratulate Agent Coulson as he enters the room with Tony Stark, but stops short when he sees the young woman who is coming up behind them. She's striking, even in the solid black jumpsuit that seems to be standard issue for the helicarriar's crew, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her green eyes bright. He can see her curves- good lord, _all_ of her curves- beneath that suit, and the gentleman in him wants to avert his eyes, but he just knows someone would comment because nobody _doesn't_ look anymore. He doesn't know who she is, but she looks like the most beautiful girl he's seen in a very long while, and he's just letting himself wonder what it would be like to make those red painted lips smile when she opens them and the illusion Steve had created shatters.

"Alright, Fury," Her thick British accent catches him off guard, and he almost jumps as she slams down the files in her hand on the curved table where Bruce is already seated. "What the _fuck_ is your game, sending Coulson to collect me? I _just_ got in _two fucking hours ago_ from Florence-"

"Hello to you, too, Agent Bristow," Director Fury gives her an exasperated look. "If we could get on with the meeting-"

"Oi!" Bristow snaps her fingers, getting Fury's attention again. "He was sitting on my fucking bed in the fucking dark, that shit is fucking creepy!"

Steve blinks in shock as Tony smiles almost approvingly. How could such a lovely young woman have such a filthy mouth?

"It wasn't entirely dark," Coulson says in his own defense, taking a seat. "You just weren't paying attention."

"I'm always paying attention, Coulson," Bristow argues, taking her own seat between him and Tony. She leans back comfortably, waving to Bruce and Natasha. "Big Guy, Widow."

Natasha nods stiffly and Bruce waves with a small smile. Bristow's gaze falls on Steve, looking him up and down, her gaze long and lingering, almost as if she's touching him. He curses his inability to control the blush that spreads up his neck and cheeks, which is undoubtedly what makes the corner of her mouth twitch up as she says, "And who's the button-up?"

"This is Captain Steve Rogers," Coulson says proudly, leaning forward excitedly, "Otherwise known as-"

"Captain America," Bristow finishes, her eyebrows going up amusedly. "I have to say, you're much more attractive in person than in those old film reels they show us in school."

Fury rolls his eyes as Tony grins from ear to ear, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Isn't she just a treat?"

"Steve Rogers," He holds out his hand for her to shake. She crosses her arms over her chest. He drops his hand.

"Vivian Bristow," She says with a smirk, as if he ought to know that name, and the weight that comes with it. "I've heard _so _much about you."

"Good things, I hope," Steve mutters, awkwardly shuffling to go sit on the other side of Bruce. Vivian's eyes follow him like a sniper on a target, and he can still feel them like a physical touch even when he looks away from her.

Vivian leans as much as she can in the chair against Tony's chest, "So what are we in for today, Director? Another lecture about the dangers of alcohol in the work place? I'll have you know that was just the one fucking time, and I wasn't even smashed enough to not be able to land the fucking plane-"

"No, Agent Bristow," Fury's tone conveys none of the desperation of their situation, but Steve sees her sobering ever so slightly. She looks at Fury like there's no one else in the room, then. Steve is still looking at her. "This is about saving the world."

"Alright," Vivian says, "Go on."

* * *

Review if you like? It'd be much appreciated, my writing skills are terribly rusty. (And I'd like to say the plot gets better and the chapters get longer as it goes on, but... eh, you'll see.)

-Rach


	2. In which stains are almost removed

****These early chapters are short, boring, and terrible. Please excuse them.

* * *

**In which stains are almost removed**

* * *

Steve is about to follow Tony into the room where Agent Coulson died when he hears voices and stops just outside the door.

"Oh, Tyler, please deliver me."

He thinks he knows that voice, though he hasn't heard it much before.

"Oh, Tyler, please rescue me."

There's a soft sigh, and the sound of bristles scrubbing on metal.

Tony says, "Vee."

The scrubbing stops. "May I never be complete." There's the sound of something splashing. "May I never be content." More scrubbing. "May I never be perfect."

Steve recognizes Vivian's voice as she says, "Deliver me, Tyler, from being perfect and complete."

He wonders who Tyler is.

"Only after disaster can we be resurrected." There's a quality to her voice that he's never heard before. She sounds hollow, as if someone has scooped up her insides and dumped them out on the floor. Like she's empty. "It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything."

Tony sighs again. "Don't quote _Fight Club_ at me. Now get up, they have people who can do that later-"

"Number three seems to know what I need," Vivian is still reciting lines from _Fight Club_, whatever that is. "Number three pounds until his fist is raw."

Splash. More scrubbing. As she goes on, she speaks with more force. With more emotion. Like the words draw her grief out of her and set it on fire. "Until I'm crying."

It feels like something Steve shouldn't be listening to, but he just can't make himself leave. Not when she's being so _real_.

"How everything you ever love will reject you or die."

She gets louder.

"Everything you ever create will be thrown away."

So does the sound of her scrubbing.

"Everything you're proud of will end up as trash."

Her voice breaks on the last word, and Steve suddenly thinks he doesn't want to hear any more.

"And the fight goes on and on, because I want to die."

"Enough!" Tony barks, the first time Steve has heard him raise his voice to her. Apparently he's heard all he can take as well.

"I am Ozymandias," Vivian is quite again. Hollow. Tinny. "King of kings."

There's another loud splash and the sound of footsteps in the opposite direction. Steve peers around the corner. There's a faint blood stain on the wall across from where Tony is standing. The wall is wet with water and soap. A white bucket topped with a layer of foam sits in front of it.

"Nothing is static," Tony says softly, as if continuing what Vivian started. "Everything falls apart."

Tony goes quiet. Steve steps into the room.

* * *

... Despite that, reviews are much appreciated.

-Rachel


	3. In which she finds herself strangely att

**In which she finds herself strangely attracted to him when he's in charge**

* * *

When it comes down to it, he doesn't want her going down to Manhattan with them. It's not like she's ever done anything he's said before anyway, so when he tells Clint and Natasha to suit up, he doesn't expect them to meet him in the bay toting little miss 19-and-crazy in that skin-tight suit that still makes him blush.

"Not a chance, Wonderboy," Vivian spits when he tells her to scram, "This is my fight, too."

He looks to Natasha as if for help, as if she will try and dissuade the girl from joining them. Tash just shrugs and lets her eyes linger on the plane she wants. Of course she would be all for the flashiest machine in the place. Clint isn't any help either; he's staring at the plane even more lovingly than Natasha. If Tony were here, he would vouch for her, too.

Out of excuses that she won't beat him for, Steve sighs. "One condition: I am in charge."

She looks at him blankly, as if she does not comprehend.

Steve sighs. "If I say shoot, you shoot. If I say stop, you stop. If I say run, you get out of there."

And to his surprise, Vivian nods. "Of course, Captain. On my honor, your word is law."

Steve isn't sure how much honor this girl's got, but he can see the light in her eyes flare up when he looks at her. In that instant, it's almost a tangible thing, a decisive click that shifts her from civilian to soldier. Although perhaps there's really no difference between the two where she is concerned. That's part of why he doesn't want her coming along.

It's also part of why he thinks she just might be the perfect asset to their team.

But Steve just nods and leads his makeshift band of almost-heroes to the plane they've been eyeing. The maintenance man (just performing a routine check, Steve crosses his fingers) looks up from his crouch and stands to meet them. "Hey, you guys aren't authorized to be in here-"

"Son," Steve says firmly, cutting the guy off, "Just don't."

The man scurries away. As Steve watches him go, he catches Vivian looking at him, the corner of her red mouth curled up in an elegant smirk. She winks at him when she catches him looking back, which has been happening a lot lately. Rather than conspiritory, the gesture is almost approving. He wants to say something clever, to make her full-on smile, the way Tony always seems to know how to do, but he finds himself tongue tied, his heart beating strangely fast.

And when she walks past him, he can feel the shiver run all of the way to his toes where her arm brushes against him. She looks over her shoulder at him, because she can feel him looking at her, because he is _always _looking at her, and, dear God, she knows it.

The plane rises. Vivian nods just once, and Steve puts his head back in the game.

* * *

Wow, that was worse than I remembered it.

-Rachel


	4. In which you really can't go home again

**A/N **Longer, hopefully better chapters from here on in. I actually started liking writing this about now.

* * *

**In which you really can't go home again**

* * *

"So where do you think you'll go?"

Vivian and Steve are the last two left on the bridge. Everyone else has paired up and gone: Thor and Loki to Asgard; Bruce and Tony to the Tower; Natasha and Clint to god knows where. It's well past dark, the only light left being the high lamps and the end of her cigarette, burning orange against the black. He didn't know that she smokes, but the smell is almost a comfort at the moment, reminiscent of his military days, sitting in a bar with the Howling Commandos, though he never took up the habit himself.

He shrugs. "Back home, I guess."

"And where is home for you, Cap?" She takes another drag, and he watches her exhale a lazy stream of smoke.

"I've got a place in Brooklyn," he tells her. "What about you? Where are you headed?"

"England," She says it like she wishes she wasn't. "Gonna go see my mum and brothers."

He doesn't ask about her father. "That's nice. That you have family to go home to."

"You haven't met my family." Vivian puts out the spent cigarette and lights another. "Honestly, Tony's place feels more like home than my mother's house anymore."

"I always like my mother's house," Steve thinks back to what he can remember of his childhood- warm smells in the kitchen and quiet evenings by the radio in his mother's lap. He also recalls the sterility of the hospital rooms, but he tends to not focus so much on those memories.

"Why don't you go there?" Vivian runs a hand through her dark hair, pushing it out of her face so she can look at him. "I mean, it's not like she'll be there, but the place might be."

Steve looks down because he already knows. The building was torn down in 1957, and nothing stands in its place. He hasn't been there, but he looked it up on the internet as soon as he learned how to use Google. In fact, he's been consciously avoiding that part of town whenever he goes out. With everything else that's changed, he doesn't know how well he would take seeing his childhood home gone.

Vivian must be able to read his face either too well or not at all. She puts out her cigarette. "Come on. Let's go."

It doesn't surprise Steve that he still knows all the turns by heart. It's like being a kid in the city again, except instead of being on the back of Bucky's bike, Vivian's the one holding on to him. It's different, and Steve might even be enjoying it if it weren't for the tightness building in his chest at the thought of seeing his mother's home gone.

As they pull up, Steve tightens his grip on the handlebars to stop his hands from shaking. He knew that it was gone, but his mind wouldn't wrap around the idea until he's seeing it with his own eyes. There is no building, only a vacant lot surrounded by a chain link fence. Not even the concrete foundation remains, just dirt and a few weeds scattered around.

Vivian, ever on to the next adventure, swings her leg over the bike and hooks her fingers into the fence. Steve watches her climb up and hop over, landing in a crouch. The dirt puffs up around her in a cloud; she stands up and walks towards the center of the lot.

After a moment's hesitation, Steve gets off the bike, throws up the kick stands, and follows her over the fence. He lands, not quite as gracefully as she did, in the same cloud of dust. Instead of going to the middle of the lot, he walks in a deliberate path, not seeing the lot at all. Instead, he sees from a child's perspective the foyer where his mother used to hang his coat when he got home from school. To the right is the kitchen, with its chipping yellow cabinets always too high for him to reach; to the left is the living room with its threadbare couch and scratchy radio. He can almost still hear his mother's sweet voice as she sang along with the crooners, tidying up after she thought he was asleep so the dust wouldn't upset his asthma.

Steve moves down the hallway, lined with portraits of relatives he doesn't know and pictures of his father. Mostly, though, there are his drawings, of flowers and animals and people and places. His mother adored his artist's hand; as he got older, she would spend what little money was left after the bills and the groceries on pencils and notebooks for him. His most treasured possession for the longest time was the set of coloring pencils that were a gift from her on his eighteenth birthday.

Steve stops at the end of the hall. On one side is his old room. On the other is his mother's. Both, he knows, will be exactly the same as he remembers them, because this is only a memory, but he doesn't know which one he'd rather see. The room where he spent most of his childhood when he wasn't in the hospital, or the room where he came home from art school one afternoon and his mother was still in bed and not breathing and she just wouldn't wake up no matter how much he shook her-

Instead of trying to choose, Steve sits down where he is, tucks his legs up against his chest and hides his face in his hands.

There's the soft clod of feet on the dirt as Vivian walks over to him. He hears the shuffle or fabric and paper, and then the click as she lights up another cigarette. As she takes the first drag, she moves closer, until he can feel her leg brush against his arm. With her free hand, she reaches down to gently run her fingers through his hair. His shoulders shake and he wants so badly to cry, but not here, not now, not in front of her. He's supposed to be strong; he can't afford to break down over every little thing like knowing that the last part of everything he used to know is really gone and he can't ever get it back…

Vivian sits next to him, criss-crossing her legs and lightly putting her arm around him. She leans her head on his shoulder. "Deep breaths, Captain," she murmurs, "Count back from ten. You're fine."

Steve breathes in, and all he can smell is smoke and citrus and dust.

_Ten_.

There is nothing left of his old life.

_Nine_.

Everyone he loves is gone.

_Eight_.

Everything's gone.

_Seven_.

He is all alone.

_Six_.

Breathe.

_Five_.

He's a superhero.

_Four. _

He has a team.

_Three_.

He has a family.

_Two_.

He is not alone.

_One._

Everything is going to be fine.

Steve folds his arms over his knees and rests his chin on them. Vivian keeps her arm around him, and they sit, him occasionally wiping his eyes and her occasionally lifting the cigarette to her mouth. It feels like hours that they sit there, and at the same time like no time at all until he's pulling her up with him and dusting himself off.

"I've kept you long enough," Steve hops down on the street side of the fence after her. "I'm sorry."

Vivian waves it off. "Don't worry about it." She glances at his watch. "But I _do_ have a plane to catch."

He's about to offer to drive her when she steps forward and lightly pecks his cheek. "See you next time the world needs saving, Wonderboy."

She's off, then, walking gracefully down the street before his blush can recede. He calls after her, "Hey! Don't you need a lift?"

"I've got it covered," She turns so she can look at him, still walking, backwards. She grins and gives him a mock salute, a new cigarette dangling from her fingers. "Thanks anyway, Cap."

She reaches the edge of the pool of light cast from the street lamp, and the night swallows her up, and it is as if she was never there at all.

* * *

Reviews? Maaaaaybe? I'll give you all the love that what's left of my heart is capable of.

-Rachel


	5. in which everyone finds their way home

**In which everyone finds their way home**

* * *

A month after that day on the bridge, Steve finds himself at the entrance of Stark Tower, debating whether or not to go inside. He has, in his hand, the key card that Tony gave all of them when they separated; he said its meant to open any door in the Tower including the front. He doesn't know why he can't just make himself go in- he's been told he's welcome, he's been told to come any time, he knows logically that there would be nothing wrong with going upstairs just to say hi.

But the thing is, he doesn't know that that's what he's here to do. In fact, he doesn't know why he's here at all. This morning, he got on his bike with the intention of finding a new place to go for coffee, and somehow ended up driving around the city for hours. He didn't intend to end up at the Tower, it just sort of…happened. Almost like he was being drawn there by something. He sure as hell doesn't _want_ to be there; he might have made his peace with Howard's son, but they're not exactly the best of friends. He wouldn't stop in just to say hi. He wouldn't stop in at all.

As much as Steve doesn't want to admit it, he's lonely. He had thought that maybe Fury's attempts to save the world might actually get him back into it, like he accused Fury of trying to do in the first place. There were other people like him around, if only for a few days shy of a fortnight. It was nice, not feeling so alone, even in the short amount of time that he felt that way. For the first time since Steve woke up, he almost had _friends_.

And then the world was saved and the mission was over and everyone went their separate ways, and Steve is right back where he started fresh out of the ice.

Except…

Steve slides the key into the lock and heads upstairs.

* * *

It's the next day and Steve is back outside the Tower with his card in his hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. Somehow, between pleasantries and polite conversation and awkward silences, Tony had mentioned an extra _floor_ that no one was using and invited Steve to stay. He'd politely declined. At the end of the visit, Tony had brought it up again, and _that_ was when Steve had decided, _what the hell, why not?_

"Hey, Cap!"

Steve turns and tucks the card back in his pocket as he's promptly kissed on both cheeks by a familiar figure clad in something that barely passes for clothes. He smiles. "Vivian, it's good to see you."

"Same," She flashes that dazzling grin, the one that would send a weaker man to his knees. As it is, Steve can barely keep himself from smiling like an idiot at her. "What brings you to the Tower this fine day?"

"Probably the same as you," He gestures to the backpack she's carrying, full to bursting. "The rest of my stuff's being sent over later."

Vivian's grin gets bigger. "Me too. Just couldn't keep away, I guess."

"Nor could I."

They both turn to see Thor in surprisingly normal civilian clothing, walking down the street with a small bag clutched in his hand. He smiles almost shyly at them, as if he doesn't know how he'll be received. Vivian gives him the same grin and kisses his cheeks, too, widening his smile. "It appears as though we have chosen to visit the Tower on a lucky day, if so many of our numbers are here together."

"Yeah, you said it, Goldilocks," Clint claps a hand on Thor's shoulder, a teasing smile on his face. Natasha, as usual, is not far behind, and Vivian immediately pulls the other woman into a friendly hug. She waves at Clint, who sticks his tongue out at her. "I guess you guys are gonna be staying here, too?"

"We just got in from London," Natasha says, looking at Vivian. "Your mom says hi."

Vivian makes a face.

Clint grins mischievously. "She's _very_ curious to know why you were in town for a month and didn't visit."

She's about to make a scene when the last member of their posse shows up. Bruce smiles timidly. "Well. This is a nice surprise."

"Is anybody actually going to come inside, or are we all going to camp outside my front door?"

The voice on the intercom makes Steve jump a little, but he smiles anyway and tells Tony, "We were just on our way up."

The day and most of the night is spent in the living room, the seven quasi-heroes talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company. Things seem to fall into place, because they've all gravitated there for a reason, even if none of them knows that reason yet. Steve finds that being around them is like being around people who he's known forever. It's easy and comfortable and it makes Steve happier than he's been since he was unfrozen. He realizes that he's not alone in having been lonely, and that maybe what he needed, what they all needed, after all, was to be here with each other on common ground.

Somewhere past one in the morning, they start separating to their own rooms to go to bed; first Bruce, then Clint and Natasha, then Thor, then Tony, until it's just Steve, and Vivian still up. And when she decides she needs sleep, she kisses his cheek and says, "Welcome home, Steve."

He smiles, because he knows its true.

* * *

**A/N **Reviews are always welcome, my loves.

-Rachel


	6. in which beaches are a good place for

**In which beaches are a good place for bonding**

* * *

Three weeks into the clean up of Manhattan, Tony announces that they're going to the beach.

"Florida," He tells them over breakfast, a glass of something amber and alcoholic already clutched in one hand. "Day trip, my treat. We'll take the jet and call it a team-building exercise."

Steve wants to protest, but Natasha beats him to it. "No. We've still got work to do."

"But work is so, you know, boring," Tony makes a face of mock disgust. "Come on, it'll be fun. I am so tired of the city-"

"Then maybe you should've put your tower somewhere else." Vivian's grabbing a cup and pouring herself coffee, dressed in the same garb Steve saw her leave in last night. She probably just got home. "Not that I'm complaining or anything. I love the beach." She takes Tony's glass, dumps half the contents into her coffee, hands it back. Tony pouts. "Sand, sun, surf, always a good time. Right, Barton?"

Perhaps they're sharing some kind of inside joke, or perhaps he just doesn't like her saying his name, because Clint, from his perch on top of the refrigerator, flips her, appropriately, the bird. Vivian blows him a kiss.

Bruce sighs. "It's been a stressful few weeks. I think everyone could use some time off."

Some of them share _looks_. If the guy who tends to have astounding anger management issues thinks things are stressful, a vacation might be a good idea.

"What say you, Captain?" Thor asks kindly. Much to Tony's disappointment, the team's taken to looking to Steve to make the calls. Sometimes it's much to Steve's displeasure, too.

"The beach isn't so bad," He shrugs, attempting the tried and (sometimes, with this bunch) true diplomatic approach. "How about we take a vote?"

At 4-2, Clint and Natasha are out-voted and within the hour the seven misfit heroes are on their way to Tony's Miami mansion.

* * *

As it turns out, hurricane season is _not_ the time to make a trip to the beach. Tony's house backs right up onto the sand, not that that does them any good when the clouds are low and dark, the air so thick with water that it's like breathing in hot soup. The whole back of the house is made of glass, though it's not like they've got much of a view with the black waves and the desolate sand.

"A week," Tony bargains with the disgruntled group, "This is gonna clear up in no time, I swear. Just give it a week."

Natasha curses at him in Russian. Clint has already climbed the couch and Bruce is muttering something about more coffee. Steve doesn't even see Thor or Vivian.

"One week," Natasha growls, stalking upstairs to claim a room. Clint hops down and flits after her. Bruce smiles weakly and pats Tony's shoulder before heading to the kitchen.

Tony sighs. "Guess I should've had Jarvis check the forecast before we-" He cuts himself off with a laugh, having turned to face the window. "That girl is fucking crazy."

Steve looks out the window, and he can't help but laugh, too.

Down past the sand, Vivian has stripped down to her cherry printed bikini and is happily seated atop the shoulders of Thor, who is halfway out in the surf. He's so far out in the water that her toes are wet; she's kicking up and splashing him, her laughter so loud that Steve swears he can hear her from inside. He can definitely hear Thor, giddy and smiling and shoulders shaking. He says something Steve can't make out, but he can see Vivian giggle, placing her hands on either side of his face. When he tilts his head up to look at her, she plants a kiss smack in the middle of his forehead, leaving a sloppy red smear where her lipstick rubbed off on him.

It sends the both of them into another round of laughter, swaying in the water until a wave comes and knocks them off balance, throwing them into the water. They disappear for the briefest of moments (during which Steve holds his breath and prays that they both resurface because they're a big part of all he has and oh god what if they don't-) and come up closer to the beach. Thor crawls up the sand while Vivian lets the tide carry her in. Even as the collapse on each other, they're still laughing.

"I don't think I've ever seen him smile like that," Bruce says quietly, returned with a cup of hot coffee to stare out the wide window with them.

"She's got a gift," Tony says with a broad grin. His pride in her is written all over his face, more akin to the emotion of a father or a brother than the lovers Steve originally assumed them to be. Steve wonders if he'll ever know what's between them, or if that will remain a mystery like so much of the rest of her is.

"She's got something," Clint says from the edge of the loft, sitting on the half wall with one leg dangling in the air. It makes Steve more nervous than it should. He's got a thing about Vivian, and not liking her so much, but he's staring at her in the same way everyone else is right now. And he's right, it _is_ something.

Vivian is, Steve thinks, very young. She's never looked younger or more alive than there on the beach. She is, after all, only nineteen to his biological twenty-six, to Tony's forty-two. She's probably seen just as much as most of them.

"Oi, you fuckers in the house!" She can see the rest of the team staring through the window, and she smiles at them gleefully, all pearly white teeth and red lips and scrunched up eyes. "You coming out or what?"

Tony glances at the rest of them and shrugs. "Why not?"

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitches up as Tony slides the door open and steps out. Bruce sets his coffee down. "Well, we're dressed for it anyway…"

Natasha turns and says something in Russian to Clint upstairs. He nods and hops down from the wall, then follows the other two out. He pauses at the edge of the deck, waiting for Natasha to slip her shoes off and put them up on the table. Then, they're down in the sand as well, talking and laughing and all of them look so much like a family already that Steve's heart aches.

When she's sure the others are comfortable, Vivian scrambles up and heads for the house where Steve is still inside, watching. She pokes her head in the door. "What about you, Cap? Up for a swim?"

The smile she gives him is so warm that he melts. "I'll be out soon."

"Well, you're just standing there," She opens the door further and steps inside, leaving sandy footprints on the carpet. "Why not be out now?"

Steve is so surprised when she reaches out and takes his hand that he can't protest as she leads him out. He hasn't had this since he woke up, the casual touch that speaks of trust and companionship and _friends._

Or maybe he's reading too much into it, and she just wanted him out of the house.

But when they get to where the others are, Vivian keeps his hand in hers as she pulls him down in the sand next to her. She doesn't let go as the waves splash closer and they have to move up by the house, or as the dark sky becomes darker and Thor lights a fire even though they could just as easily turn on the porch lamps. By that time, she's leaning back against his chest like Natasha is doing with Clint and Tony is attempting to do with Bruce, who is resisting. She's so close that he can feel every laugh reverberate through her frame, smell the citrus shampoo she uses. And he just can't stop smiling.

"I told you," Tony grins at him later, after Vivian's kissed them all goodnight and everyone else has gone to bed. "It's a gift."

Steve smiles shyly and looks down, but he definitely, definitely agrees.

* * *

**A/N** There may never actually be a technical plot to this story, but I sure do like some of these.

Reviews, loves?

-Rachel


	7. In which there is talk of youth and tech

**In which there is talk of youth and technology**

* * *

Despite what everyone thinks, technology isn't really all that different than it was seventy years ago. And, despite what everyone thinks, Steve isn't really having all that much trouble adjusting. There are some things, yes, that he's still figuring out, like navigating certain parts of the internet and operating Tony's computers, but for the most part, he actually is ok. There is nothing scary about the public transit system. Blu-Ray players do not make him cry.

People seem to forget that he is a soldier. Steve has _seen things_. Not even just that, he is a soldier that raided HYDRA bases. He is a soldier that worked with Howard Stark. He's seen advanced technology. He's good at learning, and adjusting, and adapting.

And what frustrates him more than anything about this brave new world is that everyone seems to assume that he has no idea what he's doing, which is absolutely not true. What's almost worse is that his friends are the ones that tease him the most about it. He knows, reasonably, that that's all it is- teasing. They don't _really _think that he's afraid of the coffee machine. They don't _really_ think that he can't go on the subway by himself.

It still stings, though, when he's heating up a frozen dinner and the microwave malfunctions just as Vivian comes up on the other side of the counter with a, "Need some help, grandpa?"

"No, thank you," Steve replies curtly, tired and sore from a long afternoon at the gym and really not in the mood.

Vivian grins as he lightly taps the top of the microwave, peering in through the window in the door. "You sure?"

"_Yes._" Steve opens and closes the door, and frowns as that does nothing. He unplugs it, plugs it back in. Nothing.

"Yeah, you're doing fucking amazing with it so far," Vivian taunts. "Have you tried pushing the start button yet?"

"_Yes,_ I did," Steve snaps, tired and hungry and so fed up with no one thinking he can do anything- "I'm not stupid, ok? I can work a- I know how to work a damn microwave- I'm not _stupid_- I'm _not-"_

"Hey," Vivian's tone has changed completely, as gentle as the hand she puts on his arm. "I know you're not stupid."

Steve nods, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He doesn't know if its that or her hand that calms him down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"S'alright." She squeezes his arm, then lets it go. "Forget the fucking microwave, let's go pick something up."

* * *

Steve is quiet as they walk down the street, hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Vivian's been good about pointing things out whenever they take walks, which is more and more often, but tonight she shares his silence. They end up at the pizza place that Tony usually orders out from, where she puts the order in while he goes and finds them a booth.

"So," Vivian slides in next to him, even though there's a perfectly good seat across the table from him. Perhaps she doesn't want to risk him getting up and leaving, which he wouldn't do anyway, even if he is still slightly annoyed. "You know none of us really thinks you're stupid. Right?"

"I know," Steve says quietly, staring down at the placemat in front of him. He doesn't know, really, and it must show because Vivian sighs and puts her hand on the top of is thigh. He's still not used to her, or anyone from this century, really, touching him so casually, but she tactfully ignores his light blush.

"Steve," She says seriously, and fixes her eyes on him, "Do you think we'd have followed you onto a fucking battlefield if we thought you were fucking stupid?"

"No," Steve glances up and she's looking at him with big green eyes that he can't make himself look away from.

"Then what's the big fucking deal?" She asks, a bit exasperatedly, and he's suddenly struck by how flippant and juvenile and fresh-

"It's a big deal to me," Steve says stubbornly, frowning at the tabletop. "Hey, why do you have to be so-"

"Bitchy?" Vivian offers with a relaxed grin. "Interested? Nosy? Up in your shit?"

"-young."

At this, Vivian laughs. If he wasn't still scowling, Steve would smile. God, he loves making her laugh. "Because I am young, Cap. And if you ask me, a little youth is what you could use at the moment."

"And why do you say that?" He sighs tiredly as the pizza is brought to the table. Vivian flashes a dazzling grin at the waiter, who blushes and hurries away. She turns that grin back to Steve.

"Because you, darling, need to loosen up," She informs him lazily, slipping under his arm and snuggling up against his chest. He can feel himself unconsciously tense up a little, already doing the opposite of what she's told him. "Relax, love. Don't be so… stiff."

The kiss she plants on his jaw feels more than friendly. Color floods his face. "Oh."

"So we'll work on that." She says. "Now eat."

Steve smiles. If this is where his frustration with the microwave gets him, he might just give up trying to get the hang of modern technology altogether.

* * *

I'm not sure how much i like this chapter, but I certainly hope you do. Feedback is always appreciated.

-Rach


	8. In which he (almost) learns to dance (al

**In which he (almost) learns to dance (almost) just for her**

* * *

"'You are cordially invited to the Grand Re-Opening of Stark Tower, to be known furthermore as Avengers Tower'."

Everyone groans as Clint reads the invitation aloud. Thor even falls dramatically off the back of the couch.

Vivian plucks the card, which was waiting for them upon arrival for breakfast that morning, from Clint's hands. He pouts childishly and mimes shooting her in the head. She mimes being shot, reading off, " 'And you motherfucking Avengers had better be there to suffer through it with me'."

Bruce blinks calmly, sipping from his coffee mug. "Does it really say that?"

"It's implied." Vivian passes the card off to Steve as she walks by on her way to Natasha. "Think we could get away with wearing the getups from the Paris assignment?"

They argue back and forth as Steve scans the card. Its in a week. "Hey, Bruce. Think there's be dancing at this thing?"

Bruce shrugs. "Probably. There usually is, at Tony's parties. Or so I've heard."

So he's got a week, Steve thinks, to learn how to dance for-

He glances at Vivian, stretched out on the floor like a cat in a patch of sunlight. _She_ must know how to dance. With the way she always moves, in the battle or around the Tower, she must know how to dance. She must be amazing.

-for the party. He's learning how to dance for the party. Yeah, that's it.

* * *

By the time they've been at the even for an hour, Steve learns that a week is so not enough time to learn to dance like a professional, especially when most of that week is spent on missions. He steps on a total of seven feet, including that of someone he was not dancing with, not including his own. Its such a disaster that he decides he could use a drink. It does nothing, of course, not even act as a placebo. He spends most of the night making small talk with strangers and generally avoiding Vivian. He doesn't want to humiliate himself further. Especially in front of her.

But during one of the more boring conversations with a handsy socialite, Vivian tugs on his arm and pulls him away, telling the man trying to cop a feel that there's urgent business Steve must attend to. He feels a mixture of relief at getting out of it, and dread at the thought that there's something so urgent that its interrupting Tony's big party. She leads him to the elevator and takes him, rather than to the basement and the car or his bike, to the roof.

"Where are we-" Steve blinks as the doors slide open and they're faced with all the other quasi-heroes, up on the roof, still in their party clothes, still with their drinks in hand. Everyone's more relaxed than they were downstairs, sleeves rolled up, shoes off, hair down. More like the kind of gathering he's used to.

And Vivian's holding his hand and bringing him out to them. "Come on, Cap, I haven't had a dance yet."

Steve blushes as he's pulled to the middle of the space, Vivian kicking off her shoes on the way. "There's no music."

Tony clicks a button on his phone. Sinatra spills over an invisible sound system. Vivian grins.

"I really don't know how." Steve's staring at her. He knows she knows he's really, really staring.

"Then I'll teach you." Vivian grins as she pulls him to her. She takes his hand, slides it along her waist. His whole hand, so much bigger now than it used to be, would probably cover the entirety of her lower back, were he to ever put it there. She's so small, compared to him. He holds her lightly, carefully, almost afraid to break her. Even though he knows he never could. Not her. She's too strong to be broken by someone like him.

She puts her hand on his shoulder, her other hand in his free hand. She moves closer, has him watch their feet while they're moving. Slowly, at first. With those bare feet, she really doesn't want to get stepped on.

"Sorry," He mumbles it over and over, every time he takes a wrong step. "Sorry."

He looks down further as Vivian laughs softly. Its humiliating. He sighs. "I'm really awful at this."

"Well, yeah," She laughs again. No malice. Just… a laugh. "Kinda figured it'd take more than a few minutes. We'll work on it, ok?"

Steve looks at her through his lashes. She's so lovely, smiling like that.

"And for now," Vivian moves even closer, sliding his arm further around her waist, folding herself completely against his chest, holding their arms close to their bodies, tucking her head under his chin. "We can just sway."

Tony winks at him over Vivian's head. Steve can feel his cheeks flush even more.

"This is nice," Steve murmurs, beginning to babble nervously, "Maybe better than dancing. What's it called? Swaying. Right. Swaying. That's it. I knew that. Its nice. Really nice. It's-"

Vivian laughs louder this time. He loves the sound. It stills his mouth, curving his lips into a smile. "You're really fucking cute, Cap."

Is this flirting? Steve thinks its flirting. He thinks they've been doing this for a while now. He thinks he likes it.

Yeah. Steve thinks he likes it a lot.

* * *

**A/N** I'm pretty _eh_ about this chapter. Thoughts? Please with sugar on top?

-Rach


	9. in which she buys him a record player

**A/N** Expect no further delays. My sincerest apologies.

* * *

**In which she buys him a record player**

* * *

Steve doesn't really have _stuff_ anymore. His house is gone, his apartment is gone, anything that would've been kept by the government is still in lockdown God knows where. Anything he has has been given to him by SHIELD or bought new with 70 years worth of military pension. Some of his things are vintage, yes- his refrigerator, his furniture, his décor, if you can call it that, picked up at antique stores and thrift shops around the city. Despite all the new technology, that's the part that really still baffles him. That everything he's so used to seeing can be found only in _antique_ stores.

He doesn't mind so much, though. The artist in him likes the sleeker new designs of things, the compactness, the tech. Its different, its fun. But there is one thing he just can't get over- record players being a thing of the past. All the Cds and iThings and digital Mp-whatevers dominate, and he just doesn't understand why.

Well, he does understand why. New music is crisper, cleaner than what he's used to. He likes it well enough, but he misses the scratch of the vinyl. There was a certain something about it that made the music seem fuller. More real, more alive. He loves that sound. That was once upon a time his very favorite sound.

Records are collector's items now. He almost can't believe it.

He's turning off the sound system that goes with his iSomething when Vivian happens to poke her head into his room just in time to hear him sigh resignedly. "Hey, Cap. Everything alright?"

He finds it somewhere between funny and sad; most of their conversations seem to start out this way. "Just feeling a little nostalgic."

"Nostalgic for…?" Vivian cocks her head, slipping a pair of shoes on her feet that give her at least another three inches.

"Some of my old records." Steve smiles gently. "No big deal."

Vivian looks around, eyeing the entertainment center. "Do you have a record player, Cap?" When Steve shakes his head, she beams. "Well, lets fix that, then. Come on."

Wow. That smile. How could he say no to that?

Steve smiles again. "Alright."

He slips on his jacket and follows her out.

They take Steve's bike, the big, beautiful motorcycle that's been his most treasured possession since he got back. The directions Vivian gives him are short and thorough, though not entirely confusing. The place they pull up to in the end doesn't look like a place at all, just a metal door set into a brick wall that you wouldn't know _was_ a place unless you knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy.

Vivian gets off the bike and waits for Steve to put up the kickstand before opening the door and ushering him into a small, dark hallway. It shouldn't make him nervous, but it does. Just a little. She takes him straight back past more closed doors, to a larger door that she also opens and leads him through.

This room is brighter, warmer. And its filled with rows of tables on which are stacked row after row of milk cartons full of old record albums.

Vivian smiles brightly at him. "Go crazy, Cap. I'll find you a good machine."

She's off, then, talking to someone behind a low counter on the wall with the door they just came in through. Steve doesn't know where to start. The boxes seem endless and disorganized, but he figures it out soon- first by genre, then by artist, then by year. Its gorgeous. Its like going home.

He could spend days in those aisles, but somehow Steve manages to be quite quick about finding what he wants. He chooses just a few: Sinatra, Durante, The Four Aces. Johnny Mathis. Only the best, for now. If Vivian will bring him, he'll come back later and find some more of his old friends. But today, this is enough.

When Steve's done, he looks around again, and has to ask Vivian where the register is when he doesn't find one. She just shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. All taken care of."

And Steve _would _protest, but he knows that with her that's not going to get him anywhere. He hugs the records to his chest protectively, as if they are precious things, and says softly, "Thank you. This… it means a lot to me."

Vivian smiles. "Any time, Cap. Let's go home."

Steve likes the sound of that.

* * *

Reviews are still quite welcome, if undeserved.

-Rachel


	10. in which he feeds safer with her for no

** In which he feels safer with her for no apparent reason**

* * *

The nightmares, they never really stop.

Steve doesn't find this out until it's so long he's lost count of the months after the attack on Manhattan, many months longer than that after he was unfrozen, and, in his own mind, not all that many months after the middle of the second world war. He's never been one prone to nightmares, which is why it surprises him even more after so much time has passed that he still wakes in the middle of some nights with a silent scream, his heart racing and his eyes searching the darkness for tell of a threat. There never is anything to be afraid of; living in Stark Tower means living with a higher level of security technology that the President has, and nothing worth being afraid of could get him in there.

Even so, the little comfort of knowing he's always protected doesn't stop the shaking.

Instead of getting better, like he thought he would if he just held out a little longer, pushed those thoughts a little farther away, things get worse, until there are periods of time where he's barely sleeping at all and he can't remember the last time he didn't wake up wanting to retch. And the worst of it is, he doesn't know what he dreams about. The thoughts fly from his head the moment he opens his eyes, and he is left feeling sick and scared and alone for no discernable reason.

Except for the obvious- the lingering fear that one morning he'll wake up and find out it's been another seventy years and his new family are all long gone. Which is why he finds himself up at all hours of the night, looking for people who aren't up because nobody else has the compulsive need to make sure everyone is safe. That doesn't stop him from getting up, though. It doesn't stop him from tucking that semiautomatic in the waistband of his pants when he walks down the long hallways, seeing ghosts and feeling old wounds throb and hearing the phantom war that is always, _always _going on in his head.

And then one night, after weeks of being able to sleep so well that he just _knew _this moment when it all came crashing down would come, he wakes with tears on his face, and he just does not want to be alone for another second because he's been alone and he does not like it, so he doesn't even bother with the gun before he gets out of bed and takes off and finds himself in front of a door that he passes by every night that he's been up and has never opened.

Steve knocks once. There is the sound of what is probably a boot hitting the door and then a muffled, "_What?_"

"I…"

The words die in his throat, not that he knew what he wanted to say anyway. His eyes close and he lets his forehead slam against the door, because it was stupid to come here because it's stupid that he's giving in to the nightmares because he's Captain America and he should be stronger than this-

"_Cap?_"

His eyes open, and he's still looking at the grey paint of her door. "Yes, ma'am."

"_Open the fucking door, Cap._"

Steve's hand is on the knob before he can stop himself, and as soon as the door opens he's glad he didn't just turn around and go back to his room like he was going to. The light from the moon spilling in through the open curtains gives him a view of Vivian sitting on her bed across the room, her hair mussed and her eyes sleepy and the blankets pooled around her waist. At any other moment, the skimpiness of her skin tight tank top would make him blush, but tonight he's not focused on anything but the way she's blinking at him like she's never seen him before.

Or, more likely, like she's never seen him like _this_ before, because no one has, really.

"Hey," She says tiredly, trying to keep him in focus even though he would really rather not have her see him like this. "Everything all right?"

"I…" Steve is having trouble with his words again. He feels exposed, with his back open to attacks from the hallway and his face open for her to read. It's not even like she's the most compassionate of people, even of people _in the building_. In his experience, both with her personally and with people who have known her more than personally, Vivian's more likely to chew him up and spit him out than offer any kind of sympathy, but knowing that doesn't stop the confession from bubbling up before he can stop it. "I have bad dreams."

He flinches, because even he can hear the way it comes out, like he's a child, like he's weak. He's not. He knows that. The moments stretch like elastic and he feels like he's going to snap if she doesn't say something soon. He doesn't care if it's to make a joke or tear him up or even just plain laugh at him, anything would be better than just the look she's giving him. Like she can't understand what he's saying, or worse, she does, and she's pitying him for it.

"Tony calls it PTSD," Steve says quietly when she still says nothing. It's a term that they didn't have when he was in the service, even though Wikipedia has told him that many of the symptoms were alive and well even then. He knows it applies to him, but he's still slightly hazy about how, and even hazier about how to deal with it when he barely has time to deal with other, more pressing issues that have fallen into his lap and his life lately. "Even though I'm still not really sure what it means."

And then he lowers his head and bites his lip because, wow, how _stupid_ can he be. And he's about to leave, but this seems to strike some kind of chord with her, because she finally reacts. It's just not in the way Steve expects her to.

Vivian rubs her eyes and scoots to one side of the bed. "Come on."

Steve looks up, and blinks at her. "What?"

She sighs and runs a hand over her face tiredly. "Bed. Come on. I wanna get back to sleep."

"Oh."

For a moment, Steve doesn't know what he's going to do. Every part of his rational mind, the gentleman in him, the way his mother raised him, says that he should go. He should turn away, and apologize for his outburst, and go back to his own room. It isn't right, it isn't proper, it is morally _wrong_ to be even thinking about spending the night with a woman who he is most definitely not married to, but-

-but this is a different century. And he doesn't want anything from her except the presence of another human being next to him in the hopes that maybe he can maybe, hopefully, finally get some rest.

So, Steve slowly crosses the room and slides under the covers next to her. He lays stiffly on his back, staring up at the ceiling as she settles back down, curing up on her side and closing her eyes. She's not uncomfortable, sharing a bed with him. Maybe she isn't as aware of him as he is of her, of the way her arm is just barely brushing against his, making him feel like there's electricity pulsing from that spot all the way up his arm and to his head and down to his toes. It almost keeps him just as strung up as being alone. Between the skin on skin contact and the images of the Commandos on the front lines still in his vision even though he hasn't closed his eyes, his heart is still going a mile a minute and his breath is still coming faster than normal.

Vivian must be able to feel how terribly upset he still is, because there is no other reason for her to reach down and gently twines her fingers with his, pressing her cheek against his shoulder with a small, contented sigh.

It's a physical reaction to her, the way his heart slows down and his breathing evens out as she squeezes his hand. He relaxes against her, the heat from her arm no longer feeling like electricity but a soothing warmth, telling him that it's alright to close his eyes now. To just let go.

He does. And that night, he sleeps better than he has since he woke up.

It becomes tradition, then, for him to find her a few times a week, when alone is not an option and with-someone-else is less than what he would prefer. And its not as if the nightmares just _stop_, because that's not how it works, but at least now he has someone to turn to and breathe in when they're over.

Before he knows it, Steve's made a habit of seeking her out before he sleeps. More often than not, it's her bed he's crawling into than his own at night. She doesn't ask any more questions, doesn't question that he's there, just slides over to make room for him and then curls up next to him. And she's there when he wakes up, to wrap her arms around his waist and press her cheek against his back, keeping him in the present instead of rooted in the scenes that play out against the darkness. Some nights are better than others. Some nights are worse.

They don't really talk about it, with each other or with anyone else. It's a _just-between-us thing_, which he doesn't think he minds having with her. In fact, he thinks he kind of likes it.

* * *

**A/N** Ah, the token Steve-has-PTSD chapter. One of the first I wrote, too. Couldn't help myself.

-Rach


	11. In which red strings of fate are tied

**A/N**

First month of school has settled down, so the rest of this should be up pretty regularly from now on. Thanks for sticking with me!

* * *

**In which red strings of fate are tied**

One night when neither of them can sleep and neither of them can stand the quiet, the Captain asks for a story, and instead he gets a hint.

"There's an old Greek myth that humans were born with four arms, four legs, and two faces," Vivian says quietly, laying on her side facing him, tucked under the blankets so that only her head and her hand are peeking out. She lightly strokes one finger down the Steve's nose, making him shiver slightly. It looks like she wants to smile, but she doesn't, just turns her lip up in that smirk that reminds him of a face Tony makes. "It's said that Zeus became frightened of their power, and split them in half, condemning them to spend the rest of their eternity searching for the other part of themselves."

"Mmmm," Steve tries to show that he's listening, which he mostly is, but he's also watching the lights from the open window play across her face. She doesn't seem to notice, too enthralled in her own stories.

"There's also the red strings of fate, in Japan," She smoothes one of his eyebrows, and then the other. "where they say that there's an invisible red thread that connects people to each other when they're meant to be in each other's lives. It'll never break. Never be severed."

He smiles a little more, closing his eyes as she runs her finger along his eyelids. He doesn't know why she's touching him like this, but it feels good, more intimate than anything else she could do to him. Like she's trying to memorize what he looks like, and the only way to do that is with her hands.

"There's the story of the twin flames, sparks that began at the beginning of creation and burn brighter with each reincarnation until they meet again." She touches his cheekbones, one at a time, making him shiver again. "And then there's Plato's theory that the original human nature was in three genders, not two. The third was supposedly a higher state of being that connected the two together until humanity became so depraved that they separated, and might one day return together if they work hard enough to become enlightened."

"Uh huh," He murmurs to show that he's still interested in what she's saying. He could listen to her go on for hours this way, talking circles around him about things he doesn't know about. He wants to.

"There's the yin, yang, opposites attract, two halves of a whole belief," She says softly, touching the line of his jaw, "or the Jewish belief that all marriages have been preordained by God, and that it's fate when they meet their 'destiny', regardless of if the relationship works out."

Her finger moves and traces his lower lip, and he realizes he's been staring at her mouth. He's suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her, to wrap her up in his arms and never let her go, even though he's pretty sure she's adverse to the idea of anything even resembling forever. And there's a split second moment where her gaze lingers on the tingling trail her fingers just left and he thinks she might just close that distance-

"My favorite, though," Vivian whispers, "is the _amna chara_."

"What's that?" Steve asks, his voice quieter than hers, his eyes still on her lips.

"It's Gaelic for _soul friend_." She curls into him a little more, letting his body fold around hers like a cocoon. "It's a term that describes a person who loves you exactly as you are, without mask or pretension."

"What is it again?" Steve whispers, liking the way she's got her knees pressed gently against his stomach and her hands still exploring down his neck. He remembers, _amna chara_, could probably recite it and its definition in his sleep like he could recite anything she says in his sleep, but he just wants to keep her talking, just wants to her _say_ it again.

"_Amna chara_," Vivian whispers back, and the way her tongue curls around the _r_ paired with the way his sleep deprived brain lowers his inhibitions just enough makes him pluck up the courage to clumsily press his lips against hers, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see her reaction as he pulls back not a second later, his face feeling like it's on fire.

"Huh."

Steve peeks an eye open and sees her staring at him with big eyes, like she hadn't expected that. She probably is. No one in their right mind, Steve thinks, would attempt to even so much as _hold hands_ with Vivian Bristow without her permission, much less kiss her, and he's about to brace himself to get his ass handed to him when she leans her head forward and touches her lips with his.

It's not at all what Steve imagined kissing Vivian- really kissing Vivian- would be like.

Not that he's been imagining kissing Vivian or anything.

And she kisses him for a while longer before pressing her forehead against his and curving her body just slightly away from him. He has the striking suspicion that she doesn't want to- that she could, and _would_, do this, and more, all night and well into tomorrow morning. But she doesn't push him, doesn't do or say anything more than a soft goodnight and another peck on the mouth that speaks volumes about how much she _cares_ about what _he _wants.

Steve lays awake long after she's fallen asleep, his arm draped experimentally over her waist and her legs curled up so much into her body that the tips of her toes brush his abdomen. When he does finally succumb to his fatigue, his dreams are filled with gentle kisses and red strings, wrapping him up in a cocoon so warm and sweet that he almost does not want to wake up.

Until he remembers he's waking up with her, and then he can not _wait _to open his eyes.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated, m'dears :)

-Rachel


	12. In which old partners become new friends

**A/N** Bear in mind that this was was I was just getting into the comics, and Clint's hearing in those tends to fluxuate in its loss depending on where you're at. Also bear in mind that this is a shitty chapter, as are all of the others, and I needed a way for Vivian to be nice to someone who wasn't Steve or Tony. Anyway.

* * *

** In which old partners become new friends**

Clint and Vivian do not get along.

Steve first notices the thinly veiled almost-hatred the first time Clint goes grocery shopping. He goes around to everyone's rooms, asks everyone if they need anything, and specifically does not ask Vivian.

Steve asks her about it. She just snorts.

They can be civil, when they want to be, they can even work together on assignments, but as people, they do not mesh. He doesn't like her, she doesn't like him back, and it just generally does not bode well for them to be left alone together. When asked, Vivian claims that she doesn't know why he hates her so much, and, when asked, he just snorts. Only Natasha seems to know the real reason behind the animosity from both sides, but she sure as hell isn't telling, or then she'd have to kill you, so the other Avengers must suck it up and deal whenever they get into one of their snits.

When Fury calls in a Big Bad who needs to be busted in a warehouse downtown, it really really doesn't bode well that he specifically asks for Vivian and Clint when Natasha is out of town and can't serve as a buffer between them. In the end, it ends up that Steve draws the short straw and volunteers to go with them instead, literally having to sit between them on the copter ride in so they don't end up smacking each other into unconsciousness before they even reach the scene. Steve barely registers that Clint keeps poking at his ears uncomfortably, as he's trying to keep Vivian from shooting a hole in something important, like Clint's head.

The two agents glare at each other until they drop out of the copter, and from there on, it's all business.

-until halfway through being shot at, when Clint's somewhere that's not with them and could very well be dead at the hands of the enemy. Steve and Vivian are holed up in one of the upstairs rooms, trying to devise a battle strategy that will not get them killed when-

"TASHA!"

Both of them snap to attention when they hear a voice down the hall calling for someone who is not there. Steve doesn't recognize it, at first, never having heard that raw, scratching scream come out of Clint's mouth before. But Vivian has, and even though it was only once, it only takes that once to send her dashing for the door and into enemy fire to find it.

"Bristow!" Steve calls after her. He doesn't get a response, only hearing the bullets ricochet off the metal walls and praying that that's all they're hitting.

"TASHA-"

Vivian finds Clint under a desk with his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes closed tight, all of him shaking in a way that makes her eyes go wide. He's clawing at his ears, the blood under his fingernails is his own, and his bow is abandoned a few feet away. It must be luck that no one else has dared to approach, either because they don't know that he's incapacitated or they think that even in this state he'll be able to kill them in an instant. He looks like he's about to scream for his partner again so she uses the hand that's not holding the gun to firmly grip his wrist, stopping him both from calling out and, momentarily, from destroying the tissue on either side of his head.

Clint's eyes snap open, and its as if his reflexes have been slowed down because he doesn't make any move to defend himself in case she'd been against him instead of with him. He's got this _look_ on his face that Vivian has seen maybe twice in the time that she's worked with him, an utter panic and mounting hysteria that more than compromises him. Its very nearly heartbreaking, she thinks, to see him like this, the normally calm and collected and constantly expressing his snaky distaste for her agent falling apart in front of her.

"Barton," Vivian says coolly, just as Steve makes an appearance and makes Clint jump so high he bangs the top of his head on the underside of the desk. She doesn't even react. "What happened?"

"My ears," There's a definite note of hysteria as he babbles at her. "My ears, my- my hearing aids, something's wrong with them- they won't work- I can't- I can't hear anything-"

Vivian tries not to make a face. She knows exactly what he's talking about, and it is bad.

Steve is a little more out of the loop. He's read enough of Barton's file to know that there was an incident that ended in partial- well, eighty percent- hearing loss- but he's never known the SHEILD agent to break like this, even under the worst pressure. And worse, he doesn't have a clue as to what to do about it, which, as their leader, is really not a great thing to happen.

It surprises him, but not as much as it should, when Vivian steps up.

"Ok," She breathes, knowing that Clint will understand her as long as he keeps his eyes on her mouth and she keeps hers locked on him. "Listen, I- everything's gonna be fine."

But she knows he's not gonna buy that from anyone but Natasha, and she's not here. He rips his arm out of her grasp and resumes what looks like trying to claw his ears off of his head, squeezing his eyes shut and making these awful, animal whimpering sounds like he's dying and-

And Steve has no idea what to do. Soldier down. And he's looking at Vivian who's looking at Clint and has holstered her gun, which he has never seen her do in the middle of hostile territory. And Clint is still mumbling under his breath and whimpering and it is so bad…

"Hey, hey, look at me, look at me," Vivian gently takes Clint's chin between her fingers and tilts his head up. He blinks at her with eyes that are big and wet and scared. And she looks back and firmly says, "I am going to get you out of here safe."

And just like that, Clint nods.

Not twenty minutes later, the three of them are being loaded onto a SHEILD helicopter and out of danger, just like Vivian promised him. As soon as she drags him on board, the other agents pin him and wrestle the malfunctioning hearing aids out of his ears, and all the while Vivian is sitting on the ground by his head, stroking his hair and holding his hand in a way Steve hasn't seen her do since… well, ever. And when the other agents are slowly backing away, Clint scrambles up, only to land right next to her again and throw his arms around her neck in what after a few moments Steve recognizes as a_ hug_.

It takes him a few more moments for him to realize that she's hugging him _back. _

"Hey," Vivian mutters as he continues whimpering pitifully against her shoulder, rubbing his back in a way so maternal that Steve would never have expected it in a million years. "I told you I'd get you out safe. I'm always gonna take care of you, got it?"

Clint can't hear her say that, but he gets it in a moment when she pulls back and signs it at him. He looks surprised, like maybe he didn't know that she knew sign language, or that she'd learned specifically for him when he'd been in the accident and lost most of his hearing and they didn't know that they'd be able to get it back for him.

He finds that out later, from Natasha, and that's why the next afternoon, when he walks into the great big living room and finds Vivian lounging on the couch, he asks her, "Do you want anything from the store?"

Tony doesn't believe her when she tells him about it. Steve does.

* * *

Yeah, so. That's about it.

xRachel


End file.
